Last Full Measure: The Chief of State's Farewell

[Brandon Rhea]

Everything was fading. Bastele could barely see the crumbling halls of the Galactic Congress as he stumbled through them. His face was shredded, his insides hanging out; the grenade had hit its mark. He clutched his bloody side as he tried to walk through, as the halls faded in and out between visible and complete darkness. He had to make it these few last steps.

After what seemed like a lifetime, with his own flashing before his eyes—the idealist he started his career as, the beginnings of the war, his election to Chief of State, his failures—he approached his own target. He could see it all, his entire life. He was reliving it all in an instant as he struggled to make it through the doorway of the communication center. What he had seen outside… a Sith warship was speeding towards the surface, towards the Jedi Temple, like a dagger falling down from the sky. He didn’t know why, or what the Sith’s goals were, but he knew those maneuvers on a warship were not normal. Something was about to happen.

Bastele leaned in on the computer consoles, typing in his secure passcodes in order to send a message across the HoloNet on all frequencies and all means of communication. The people had to know to leave Coruscant, or at least get a fighting chance to live. As he accessed the systems and the transmission was ready, he didn’t let fear get in the way. His injuries weren’t going to prevent him from giving this, his last act to the Alliance, in time to save as many as he could. If one act could atone for mistakes the cost the lives of trillions, he hoped this was it.

“This is Nathanaeu Bastele. A Sith warship is currently descending towards the Jedi Temple. I don’t know what the Sith are planning, but from the looks of it, it’s going to be terrible. If you can hear me, you need to evacuate or head underground now, at all costs. Coruscant is gone. The Alliance is falling. Save yourselves and may the Force be with you.”

He didn’t know how much of that went through. Either because of the chaos or a deliberate act by the Sith, the communications were functional but garbled. At least he did what he could, he thought to himself. At least he could try and find peace as he slid down from the console and everything started going black.

 

[Cassanova]

Sweat rolled into his eyes as he peered down the iron sights of his rifle. The smoke made it all the more difficult to see clearly. Its plumes billowing into the sky, marring the streets with a thick haze of death, suffering, and fear. The Alliance was most certainly on its back foot, and Colonel Terrsyn Pearot knew it. He was spending, what he thought to be, his last days fighting on his home world - a final, defiant act against the oppression of the Sith Imperium. Of his original men that stood with him, all but five had been killed in the Battle that decimated and raged upon the planet's surface.

After a final glance over the rubble that used to be a guard's post for the Galactic Congress building TP, as he was known even now with his rank of Colonel, huddled down into the building and eyed off his weary-faced men with admiration and respect. Speaking softly, he looked up to the smoke-blackened sky, feeling every small tremor underfoot of falling artillery in the nearby area. "Alright. Well, this didn't go as planned," he frowned as he went on to check his equipment, passing out the last of his ration bars to the men who would accept them. "It seems that it might be time to start looking for an exit. Considering how close we are to the Congress building, I figure we check the hangars there -- I know it got hammered earlier today, but its our closest available depot. Rogers, yo--"

TP stopped, startled by the seemingly loud crackling that came over his commlink. Cautiously turning the volume down so that he could hear it without alerting any nearby enemies, he merely listened in.

"This is Nathanaeu Bastele. A.... ..arship is .... descending towards the ..... I don’t know what ........, but from the ....of it, it’s going to be terrible. If you can hear me, you need to ...... or head under......... now, at all costs. Coruscant is gone. The Alliance is falling. Save yourselves and may ....."​

TP eyed off the men huddled with him, "I don't know about you lot, but considering we're headed that way. Let's go visit the Chief, shall we?" His men quickly rallied their gear, their energy renewed by the mere goal of a simple purpose; Get to the Chief of State. Their mission unspoken; extract him and secure transport out of the hot-zone. Within a matter of moments, TP and his men had fanned out across the street and were all but sprinting towards the Congress building, silently dispatching any of the few remaining threats that littered the path between them.

Once the small team had entered the building, TP nodded to four of his men, "Get a transport. Get as many civillians onboard as you can, and get as many of our people too. I don't care if you're not a qualified pilot - get us ready. Rogers and I will go up and secure the Chief."

Rogers quickly saddled up, primarily by offloading some of his heavier gear to the other soldiers. TP slung his rifle around to his back, tightening the strap before withdrawing his pistol and nodding to Rogers. The pair darted off up the stairs, sweating like pigs, making little to no attempt for silence or stealth. It wasn't long before they completed the journey to the Chief of State's chambers, and slowed their pace down. A curt hand signal to Rogers had him posted as a lookout, while TP turned his attention to the door. With a gentle shove of his boot, the door swung open followed by TP's pistol quickly assessing the state of the room. A few moments saw TP's gaze fall upon the Chief of State slumped over next to a console. Throwing caution to the wind, the Colonel slid down next to Bastele, pulling him down into a more comfortable position, while gingerly checking for a pulse. "Come on, Chief... Stick with me..."

 

[Brandon Rhea]

The sensation of being moved shocked Bastele awake again. His insides were churning like butter, twisting and convulsing as part of him hung out of the side of his torso. He coughed uncontrollably, violently spitting up some blood onto TP’s hands and clothes. The Chief couldn’t help himself; his mangled body was taking over now.

“I... who...”

Almost everything was a blur. What wasn’t blurred was spinning. It was a feeling of overwhelming disorientation, blocking out all normal conception of senses, of memory, of awareness. He could still think, and, in the back of his mind, he could still remember and feel everything, but on the surface there was almost nothing. Memories of even the transmission were jumbled, dancing around just ever-so-slightly out of his reach. On instinct, he started to cry out of his one good eye, with one tear slowly sliding its way down his cheek, mixing with the blood and grime on his burned, dead skin.

“What’s happening?”

 

[Cassanova]

TP tenderly wiped the dirt from his fingerless gloves and pulled a slightly disheveled packet from his combat harness. Holding Bastele in one hand, TP tore the packet open with his teeth, producing a combat bandage. With the required force, TP mercilessly pressed down on the open wound that seemed to be plaguing the Chief-of-State, and quickly tied the bandage around him. "Alright Chief, my name is Colonel Pearot. Alliance Special Forces. If you can hear me, squeeze my hand..." TP nestled his free hand into Nathanaeu's, and repositioned the man, allowing his other hand to pull a small syringe from a solid case buried in one of the satchels mounted on TP's back. "My men and I are here to get you out of here. This might sting..."

With a not-so-gentle jab, TP forced the needle's tip into the fleshy part of Bastele's chest, just below his collar bone. The liquid within, comaren, was a mild painkiller, mixed with a gentle amount of bacta; or as soldiers knew it: 'A quick fix to a bloody big problem'. A quick wipe of his forehead saw TP looking around the room for a moment. Seeing an upturned bench-seat, the Colonel shouted out, "Rogers! Get in here," A finger identified the next order. "Bring that bench-seat over here and flip it. The Chief's injured and we need him to get Med-evac'd fast. McCullen should have a ship ready by now, we'll get him to meet us on the roof."

Quickly the soldiers set to work at constructing a makeshift, yet comfortable combat stretcher utilizing cushions, strips of combat webbing from their backpacks, and their teamwork to carefully lift the chief-of-state onto the macguyvered bed. A quick check of Bastele's pulse and eyes saw TP step into action. "Alright. Chief? We're going to move you. We don't have the luxury of being gentle. We're going to go fast - and we're going up to the roof. You understand?" Slipping his hand into the CoS's once more, "Squeeze my hand if you understand."

 

[Brandon Rhea]

The tiny prick of the needle felt like a cannon being shot into Bastele’s chest. Suddenly, forcefully, he jolted back into awareness and, at least briefly, left his delirium. He moaned, screaming in pain, before the painkiller began to have its effect, numbing what he could only assume was the cold hand of death reaching towards him. He thought about squeezing his hand, but for some reason he didn’t. He just looked up at TP, watching the young man and wondering how Bastele could have made things different for that generation. Now torn apart by war, what could they have been if things went differently?

“Understand…,” he mumbled. “I should have understood sooner. This is what… happens when we don’t trust each other. The Old Republic and the Jedi. The Alli… the Alliance and the Jedi. This keeps happening. Why does this keep happening? We have to fix it… help fix it… This will h-happen again if we… if we don’t…”

He tried to squeeze TP’s hand, but he couldn’t. His hands grew numb, like rubber, and he couldn’t hold on anymore. They slipped out of TP’s hands back towards Bastele’s body, and he slumped into TP’s arms. His good eye was still wide, betraying an immeasurable sadness. It welled with water as his mind went back to his youth, to his days living in the slums of Corellia. It was before he decided to take a stand, to join the local government to make things better; before he ever made his way to Coruscant, and to this moment.

He saw other, richer kids taunting him, calling him names, throwing garbage at him. They told him he was worthless, that he wouldn’t amount to anything. They laughed at him when he said he would, that he would leave this planet and make things better. They beat him, mocked him, tortured him, but the idealist of his young self was never deterred. No matter how hard a bully hit him, he always stood back up and made his stand, wherever it would take him.

“Guess I showed them,” he said with a sly grin.

It was the last thing he did. His consciousness, awareness, vision; everything, it was all gone, faded away into the very darkness that was consuming this planet and the galaxy it spun in. All that remained were the tears, tears of a time lost to bloodshed, and the hope of a boy from Corellia.

 

[Kaeb]

The Senate
In the Eye of the Storm...​

An eerie disquiet hung in the air, a chilling and harrowing sensation for all who felt it. The silence defied all reason, for war had come to the worlds of free men and women, men and women who knew that war was anything but quiet in it's nature. It infected and overwhelmed, it screamed and it drained, it did not take time to breathe. It was relentless and all encompassing in it's pursuit of death, none alive would escape it, and none could, that was the will of the Empire and the dark ones who wielded it, like a cruel, malicious weapon of fate. Those who pulled the strings of this dark conquest, had cast aside their instruments, choosing instead to rely on something else entirely. Something none now living had ever witnessed, something beyond rifles, knives, fire and men. Something beyond even the force or reality itself. It emanated from everything within and without. As all perceptions of reality were interfered with, contorted and moulded into absolute corruption. The skies opened and wailed, as rain, thunder, ice and fire all became one in the same. Hurricanes riddled the surface of the world, leaving anything that remained intact, torn asunder by the shear force of itself. Coruscant was screaming, and it's cries could only form a single desperate sentiment. Please save us from this nightmare.

But suddenly the air itself seemed to take a sharp intake of breath, as whatever was responsible for the decimation of reality itself, seemed to channel their energies, focusing them in one last effort to undertake their will. This provided only moments of reprieve for the few with the will strong enough to move forward. This was shown in it's purest form, by the shadows now slowly stepping into the ruins of an area in which the people of the galaxy once placed their most sincerest hopes and desires. Into the halls of the Galactic Senate, now lost to the onslaught of the heinous and mendacious Sith influence. Their harrowing conquest had moved beyond the halls in which those shadows now walked, for clearly they had won the conflicts fought within them. Once paintings, tapestries and statues famed throughout the galaxy, rested against the walls of those halls, but now many of them lay tarnished, charred and reduced to nothing but dust and ash. Occasionally, shafts of light flickered through the ceiling and even the walls, illuminating spinning motes of dust and other elements in their gleaming rays, originating from the many holes carved through the architecture by the immorality of fierce battles, that had raged only moments ago. The light illuminated the walking shadows, revealing their true identities. Some of them were children, others criminals, some Jedi and some soldiers. Men and women alike. All walked with careful steps through the hauntingly quiet hallways of a once glorious institution. Ahead of the reasonably small group that heralded most walks of life, walked a woman. Her head held high, neck extended, her face expressionless and her hands constantly poised upon the weapons holstered at her sides. Her eyes betrayed her focus, for they scanned every aspect of the threshold the group now wandered through, waiting to find that which led them here. Hoping to find others to save.

Whisper could hear only her breathing, and the scarcely faint echo of the war and chaos that still rampaged across the surface of the world, outside the ruins they now wandered. She felt like an infant, slowly stepping through the aisle of a citadel, or an ancient church. She could practically feel the influence that once occupied the very floor she stood upon, the air that she breathed, even if it now tasted of spent metal and dirt. She did not however, allow her senses to be overwhelmed. She pressed forward, urging the others to quicken their steps as time slowly urged it's will against them. They could not afford to walk, they needed to run. All of them scurried through crumbling pillars and broken doors in search of survivors, anyone that remained within the far wing of the Senate, near it's communications center, anyone still living who represented that which they were losing. Her hopes seemed all but extinguished, until finally, she heard a sound, followed by the sight of unnatural light. Far down at the edge of the halls end, she sensed others, people who had managed to flee the battle that had now moved beyond them. Rats who had scurried from a sinking ship, one she was determined to save from drowning. Sliding her feet along the floor so as not to alarm them, she urged the others in her company to remain behind as she called out to those she knew were there, but sought to hide.

''Hold your fire.
I have have women and children.
I have survivors.
We are survivors.
I heard the signal.
I'm-
We're here to help.''​

It was in that moment, she realized the implications of her arrival at this point, why she had felt like a child lost in a revered and ancient place. The clarity enveloped her mind and numbed her senses, for it should have been obvious to her before. Throughout her entire life, she had climbed the lowest runs of the ladder, never to see the top, never to stand on the edge of history and see what lay ahead. She had never been at the precipice, never been important, never felt like she was a part of the future. She was the problem, and never the solution. She had killed so many, stolen so much, simply for her own survival. It was in the eyes of the children she had saved, that she owed her thanks, for they reflected her face and she never looked so different as she did now. Gone was the hollow shell that had floated through the underworld, through halls of criminality and effluvial grime. She had fled their waste and braved new heights and new experiences. She had always been the quiet mercenary, a thing to be feared. A thing. She no longer felt like a thing. She felt like a person. In her actions during this conflict, she had forged the making of an identity. She had built the foundations of her fate. She cast aside much of her history and decided that now was a time in which she could be redeemed. Whisper had always been a title, for a name was something she had never been given. She would earn such things. She would forge a new life. For now she did not feel hollow. She felt pure. Suddenly, she stepped forward into the room with her eyes closed, ready for whatever might meet her. Be it death, or a future.

 

[Brandon Rhea]

Bastele’s body was crumpled on the floor, where all had gone dark just moments earlier, as TP knelt over him. The soldier was trying desperately to save the Chief, using anything at his disposal, but as the seconds went on, feeling like an eternity, it was becoming more and more clear that nothing could be done without a miracle. Bastele’s vitals were virtually non-existent, and TP didn’t have the necessary training to save someone this badly wounded.

The building was beginning to shake. This was the Galactic Congress building; though low to the ground, it was a behemoth in its own right. Whatever Bastele used his dying breaths for, whatever he warned the people about, was starting to happen. If they were going to escape, it had to be now. Though part of him considered it, TP would not leave a man behind, especially when that man was his Commander in Chief.

Just then, a woman slowly crept through the doorway, with her eyes closed. TP took a moment and looked at her with a glare mixed with both confusion and disgust; why anyone would walk in with their eyes closed was beyond him, and it was just downright stupid to someone who did not understand what the woman was thinking. Still, he wasn’t about to let her get in his way.

“Open your goddamn eyes!” the colonel barked, shooting up to his feet as he did and pointing towards the brutally wounded man that Whisper was sure to recognize. “We have to get him out of here now.”

 

[Kaeb]

After what had seemed like an eternity, her eyes were finally open. Quivering eyelids parted, to reveal the sapphires contained within, jewels that immediately dropped their focus to the bloodied man lying in a heap on the floor. To someone not versed in the world of death, he would never have been deemed salvageable. They would of strolled past and left him to quake in the cold wind, until a final whisper escaped his lips, and he left for parts unknown, but Whisper knew death, she knew it all too well. He had not yet left this world, but without aid, he would surely leave it soon. She ignored the soldier's petty mockery, having evidently not heard her when she called into the room previously, before entering with eyes closed and hands raised as a gesture of good faith. It was when she stepped further into the room, that she thought on the last words the soldier had uttered, We have to get him out of here, now. Who was this man? Why was the Alliance brass stationed at his side instead of aiding the civilians fleeing to scattered ships under fire? But then she saw the man for what he was, and her eyes widened. Not idly do heroes of the Alliance fall, and many thought this man a hero, others a mendacious tyrant. She knew that to be the nature of his work, the craft of a politician who had climbed to the top of the ladder, something she had never been capable of doing. Nathanaeu Bastele, the Chief of State's fate, now lay in the hands of a petty criminal. Her hands. Both had been responsible for their fare share of deaths, both held bloody hands high and embraced that which they were. She could only respect him for that. She knelt down in front of him to inspect his wounds more carefully, the soldier eyeing her with contempt as she did so. There was enough blood to make even a seasoned mercenary nauseous.

''You're supposed to wear that red stuff on the inside,
Chief.''​

She looked him directly in his good eye, took a deep breath and then made a decision. Without hesitation, she stood up, raised both of her blasters and aimed them in the general direction of the troopers that stood by the dying man's side. She knew two things. She was the only hope everyone in that room had of escape, and the soldiers would never allow her to take the Chief of State without a fight. And so, she needed to earn there trust, because based on her own medical knowledge, he was teetering on the edge of death, if he had not already fallen into the abyss. The soldiers were caught off guard for the most infinitesimal of moments before succumbing to their training and raising weapons of their own. She eyed their commander, the man who had spoken to her upon her arrival and tried to communicate with him without words, but before she could do anything, footsteps echoed behind her and the eyes of the commander seemed to widen for a moment, indicating his pure, unabated surprise. A dozen children stepped into the room, all of them wearing nothing buts rags, their faces covered in dirt, grime and dried tears. They were the children she had saved from the underworld, and like children ought to do, they had ignored her orders to remain in the hallway until she returned. She had never felt such gratitude as she did then, for the stubbornness of children. They walked beneath the line of fire between Whisper and the soldiers and stepped towards the Chief of State with child like curiosity, and a purity of genuine concern. Whisper suddenly lowered her blasters, not even bothering to see the reaction of the soldiers as she bent down to rest alongside the children, so she could examine his wounds more carefully. He'd clearly been treated with basic painkillers to numb the pain, but the body felt pain for a reason, and it was that reason that needed to be addressed. Some of the civilians she had saved from Westport and Monument Plaza were medically trained and might be able to ease the man's passing, but Whisper knew how to treat such disastrous wounds better than most, having suffered through them herself on too many unfortunate occasions. As she realized that he could be moved without stressing his injuries further, the soldiers finally lowered their weapons and hovered near the politician as Whisper lifted him up into her arms with the aid of the children she had brought. As she entered the hallway, with survivors both behind and in front of her, she spoke loud enough for all to hear.

''Time to go.
There's nothing left for us here.
All that remains of the Alliance, lies with us.
By surviving, we defy it's destruction.
Through our defiance, we hurl one last cry against the Empire.
That we will not be overthrown by something as petty as war.
That we will flee, so that we may return.
We live, so that one day they will die.
Speech over.
Let's go.''​

Head held high, eyes open, breathing steady, with a dying leader in arms, she walked down those hollow hallways with new found determination and sharpened focus. She had never known this capability within her, she had never been a leader, she had never even had friends. But now, she held the last remnants of a crumbling world in her grasp, and instead of feeling powerful, instead of feeling somehow better than others, she felt at peace. Men, women, children, soldiers and even some other politicians, scrambled behind her, marching through the hallways to find their exit. Most looked somber, for many had once called the world home, but it was their's no longer. Whisper's life had been dark and aimless, but there had always been one truth that had comforted her, one philosophy that would never change. The galaxy was her home, she didn't need to make it small, she didn't even need a roof, warmth or a cot to sleep in. She felt at home anywhere among the stars, and that was a philosophy she would have to teach these broken souls, because it's not enough just to survive, you need to have something cling on to. Something to live for. And if there was any modicum of hope left for a renewed Alliance, they needed that strength to achieve it. Shaking herself from her reverie, she finally reached the enormous missile bombarded wing of the Galactic Congress Hall from which they had entered, having docked her fleet of Sewage Treatment Vessels she had stolen from the Underworld, outside among the rubble. The ships were ancient, forgotten even by governments from centuries ago, despite the fact that they maintained the vast irrigation network that surrounded the planets core. Their ancient design seemed to make it extremely difficult for modern devices to detect them, a distinct advantage they would need if they hoped to escape the blockade that was likely being established in orbit above them. Stepping across the rubble and coughing out dust as she approached the main ship, she looked back across the landscape of Coruscant, crippled and burning, and yet somehow still beautiful. She had never seen it so completely before now, it shook her to her very core how torn asunder it had become. For a brief moment, she swore she witnessed the Chief of State's eye open once more, spying his crumbling kingdom before him, but before she could make sure, his eyes were closed again. Stepping onto her ship, she signaled the others via remote once the other survivors had boarded. Their engines rumbled as they released all docking clamps. It was time to leave the world behind.

And as they did so, the enormous Star Destroyer that hovered above them, seemed to quake once more, as something began marshaling it's power for a final blow against the world. The mercenary and her band of a thousand misfits did not intend to stick around to view the fireworks and immediately ignited her ships engines, pushing them into full power.

Soon they would reach the stars, and leave a now lost kingdom behind.